A Night So Frozen, Yet So Scalding Hot
by xXxMusexXx
Summary: A year after the events of RENT, Mark is caught unawares on his way home by a man with a knife, and finds himself with little hope of escape. Can he be rescued in time, or is this Mark's last take? Rated T for language. R&R.


**Title: **_**A Night So Frozen, Yet So Scalding Hot**_

**Rating: **T for language and some violence.

**Summary: **A year after the events of RENT, Mark is caught unawares on his way home by a man with a knife, and finds himself with little hope of escape. Can he be rescued in time, or is this Mark's last take?

**Warning(s): **Hints towards Mark/Roger, but only if you really, REALLY squint.

**Genre(s): **Suspense/Friendship/(Romance (see above))

**Character(s): **Mark Cohen (Model: Adam Kantor), Roger Davis (Model: Will Chase), mentions of other bohemians. Don't like the models? Ignore mentions of their looks and picture them however you want. ^^

'**Verse: **A little bit of movie, a little bit of musical. Mostly movie, though – the setting is described as how the movie had it, but the models are from the musical version, and 'Halloween' was only in the musical, so…yeah. It's confusing.

**Word Count: **Not including this A/N (which is 276 words), exactly 4,100.

**Notes: **Why is it I can only write oneshots these days? Surely something is wrong with me. Surely. Anyways, here comes my first RENT Fanfiction! *braces for impact* Please read and review...especially review! Even if it's to tell me how much I suck as a writer. The feedback is appreciated, positive or negative!

_P.S. I wrote this while listening to Halloween and One Song Glory back and forth (but mostly Halloween, lol, if it's not too obvious). So, yes, it's gonna be depressing and dark and full of references to Halloween. _

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. These characters, the setting, and all that good stuff are property of Jonathan Larson - may he rest in peace. I just write about 'em.

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><p>December 21st, 8:49 PM, Eastern Standard Time. The night was frigid and bleak, with snowflakes floating down to cover the streets with yet another layer of white. The young filmmaker had already slipped several times on that dreaded black ice on his walk back home, having neglected to bring his bike. He deeply regretted that choice now, seeing as the temperature seemed to be dropping several degrees every passing minute and the snow was piling up in little mountains on the sidewalks. His trip back to Avenue B would have been much, much quicker with the bicycle, saving him this slow trek through a winter wonderland. Or, rather, what Hell would be like, should it freeze over.<p>

He could have laughed at how poetic that seemed, but as he told himself last year, poetic equals **pathetic.** That's what his little worldly observations amounted to; brainpower wasted on evaluations of the shit he was going through. Even after Benny had given up on building that CyberArts studio on the lot, even after Mimi went through rehab, even after Maureen and Joanne finally got married...to recycle an old, tired phrase, **shit happened.** Roger, Benny, Collins and himself had figured that out a few years ago, on a night not much colder than this, when they had been snowed in. Maureen had, miraculously, managed to fall asleep despite the chill, and the then-quartet of friends had huddled together under what blankets they had, trying to keep out the deathly cold. Mark remembered the comfort of Roger's arm around his shoulders - merely to share body heat, of course...of this, he assured himself - and the countless jokes they told to distract themselves. The stories Roger could come up with...God, they were funny to this day when he told them for the millionth time. Benny had fallen off of the funny-haha bandwagon and started to lament on how crappy things were, and Roger exclaimed, 'Shit happens, man!'. This was followed by Mark hurriedly shushing him, worried Maureen might be woken up.

He was then teased about how much of a sappy little boyfriend he was and told that he needed to grow some balls.

Mark hugged himself tighter, rubbing his biceps with his ungloved hands. Another thing he totally needed - gloves. How could he have a nice little scarf, but no gloves? That was like...having peanut butter without jelly! It just **didn't work!**

...Okay, less poetic, more childish. He was getting somewhere. Sort of.

He turned the corner onto Avenue B, his shoes making little prints in the powder below. A shiver ran down his spine as a particularly cold gust of wind hit him square in the face, making his cheeks grow a darker shade of red. He uncoiled an arm from around himself, halted, and removed his glasses, brushing away a few specks of white with a slightly pink thumb. His hands felt like **ice...**

He returned his glasses to their rightful place, took a deep gulp of air that seemed to burn his throat as it flowed down it, and trudged on, knowing he was quite close to his destination. He gave a yank on the ends of his scarf, making sure it was snug against his neck. He also pulled his flimsy old coat tighter around his skinny frame, a spasm running through him as another harsh blast of wind struck his front.

_Come on...I'm so close...Just another corner, through Tent City, up some stairs and I'm home._

However, he never did make it to that corner.

A pair of hands that were just as cold as the air around them locked onto Mark's arm, tugging him into a nearby alley. He gave an undignified squeak as he was thrown against the freezing bricks, squirming a little, but stopped moving completely when something even **colder**was pressed into the space between his scarf and his chin. The gap, while small, was big enough to emit the switchblade his attacker held.

Mark bit back the urge to swallow hard, worried the blade would scrape the tender flesh of his neck in the process. His head was tilted at a rather uncomfortable angle, but rather than make seeing his assailant more difficult, it gave him a perfect view, for he was a head or so taller.

The filmmaker shuddered, but not from cold.

"I-I d-d-don't ha-have a-any money-ey, s-sir, s-s-so..." He stuttered, voice quivering so much it was almost as if Mark was vibrating.

...Well, he kind of **was,** but that's beside the point.

The blade being dug farther into Mark's vulnerable neck was a sign that he had said the wrong thing. He could feel something warm on his skin now, which was a clear indication that his skin had been broken and it wouldn't be too long until there was a big slash there. Fear glinted in his dark eyes behind those rectangular lenses, and his trembling grew more pronounced. He didn't want to die, alone, in some alley, at the hands of a random thug! But what could he do to prevent the seemingly inevitable? It wasn't like he was strong enough to shove the man off, and this guy **obviously **wasn't the type to listen to reason. Mark knew he should have expected that, though; here in New York, you coughed up a few bucks or something valuable, or you could kiss your sorry ass goodbye. Roger had been preaching that to him for **years. **He really needed to start going to the 'Angel ATM' more often.

"P-P-Please..." He ventured, even though he was fully aware of how useless the protest was. "D-Don't..."

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><p>December 21st, 9:21 PM, Eastern Standard Time. Now, the musician wasn't one to worry, but <strong>Mark <strong>wasn't one to be late. The boy had some kind of internal clock that kept him on time, no matter what. When Mark says he's going to be home at 9:00 PM, he's home at 9:00 PM. Not 9:01, not 9:05, and especially not 9:21. So, it was only natural that Roger, as he watched snow bathe the streets and ice devour the windows of the loft, was a little concerned. He'd never admit it, of course, being the prideful sonovabitch that he was, but yeah, he was contemplating going out after him. The snowfall was getting pretty fierce, and Roger could only imagine what kinds of trouble Mark could have gotten into involving the weather. One possibility both friends knew was, indeed, quite possible, was that Mark slipped like the klutz he was and hurt himself. It had happened before, and it could totally happen again.

There were loads of other options, but Roger didn't want to spend ages going through each one - he needed to get down there and find out which one of them was true.

As he threw on his black leather jacket, he found himself asking - not necessarily **praying, **but close to it - that he'd run into Mark as he was going down the stairs or something. For some reason, there was this horrible feeling inside of him...an immense feeling of dread, like there was more than Mark's clumsiness keeping him away.

Wrapping his own pale green scarf around his neck tightly, the musician set out, his heavy footfalls filling the stairwell with sound as he pretty much flew down it. Sadly, he must have had a bad connection or something, for his little 'prayer' had been ignored - Mark was not in the building, nor was he in Tent City. Trying (and failing) to reassure himself, he rounded the corner onto Avenue B and started down the road, the chill beginning to seep into his bones. He shivered, rubbing his hands together, and looked every which-way, searching for his jet black-haired compadre.

He heard rather than saw him first.

There was a series of crashes, followed almost immediately by a pain-filed cry. Roger's eyes widened and he broke into a sprint, for the voice sounded like Mark's...and it didn't sound that happy.

He arrived at the entrance of the alleyway just in time to see Mark try and push himself up...and fail at doing so. From the wreckage around the filmmaker, Roger was able to easily deduce that Mark had been thrown into a group of trashcans, causing both metal and garbage to be strewn everywhere. In the light of the nearby streetlamp, the musician was able to catch a red glint on Mark's neck, as well as crimson dripping from the corner of his mouth. There was a light bruise forming on his left cheek, and, as earlier stated, he seemed to have a lot of difficulty getting to his feet.

Roger felt something ignite inside of him - most likely anger - and he was instantly in motion, springing towards the towering presence that was his best friend's attacker. Seeing as the thug's back was turned, this meant the element of surprise was on the musician's side, which he liked.

He heard a gasp from the filmmaker as he wrapped his arms around the thug's neck, gripping as tightly as he could. His toes touched the ground, but that was about it, leaving him very little leverage. Mark had noted earlier that the assailant was about Collins' height, which left him taller than both artists and…well,**most people,** which added to his intimidation factor.

The thug's attention was now on Roger as he worked on getting the blond off, swinging back and forth and pulling at Roger's forearms. Roger wasn't about to give up that easy, though – thinking quickly, he swung one leg back, then brought that knee into the small of the attacker's back. Blessedly, he got the desired effect, which was for the thug to fall onto his knees. Impulsively, he bit the back of the thug's neck hard, briefly surprised when he felt his teeth break skin. The thug let out a strangled scream, then released Roger's left forearm…

…only to drive the switchblade he held in that hand into said forearm.

Both Mark and Roger cried out, the former from shock and the latter – obviously – from the red-hot pain in his arm. Roger immediately released all holds on the thug and fell back, only having a moment to glance at the wound before he was being swung at again. He ducked in order to dodge what would have been a solid punch to the side of his face, and rolled to the side, gripping his arm and trying not to scream again. He knew from experience that he needed to leave the knife where it was, no matter how much it hurt, because if he took it out, he was going to be unconscious very quickly. The blade acted as an 'artificial clot', if you will, and kept the majority of Roger's blood from seeping out. And Roger, quite frankly, liked to keep his blood inside of his body, thanks.

Roger struggled to his feet, letting go of his arm so that he had a free right fist. Again he ducked to dodge a punch, then delivered one of his own, hitting the thug hard in the nose. He stumbled back, gripping his face, which gave Roger an opening; he hurriedly brought his knee up, jamming it into the juncture between the thug's legs, knowing from experience that it could stun pretty effectively.

And, as he suspected, the move worked; the thug **squealed, **then collapsed, gripping his wounded crotch and slowly curling up into a ball. Roger looked on dispassionately for a moment before speeding over to his roommate, wincing slightly when his arm gave a hearty throb. He noticed that Mark lacked his usual glasses, and took a moment to look for them. They were lying nearby, next to a few soda cans, with a small crack in the left lens. _Well, at least he can still wear them. _He returned to his roommate's side and slid the glasses into place. Mark adjusted them so that they were sitting correctly, and made a face when he noticed the crack.

Once he got over that, he looked back to Roger.

They both started talking at the same time:

"Mark, God, what happened-"

"R-Roger, I-I'm s-so sorry-"

The two artists finished with the same three words, "Are you okay?"

There was a brief pause, then the two laughed a little, Mark forcing a small smile.

"The g-guy was tr-trying to r-rob me-e." Mark explained, shaking terribly. Roger used his good arm to help the filmmaker to his feet, knowing that they didn't have much time to get out of here before the thug recovered. "S-Seeing as we're n-not exactly the ri-richest p-people in Alpha-phabet City, I ob-obviously-ly didn't have any-anything to gi-give him."

"Didn't you go to the Angel ATM today?" Roger asked, brow furrowed as he began to lead his injured best friend out of the alley. Mark seemed to have a limp, which Roger eyed worriedly, but that wasn't his biggest concern…

Mark's hand felt like a block of ice when it brushed Roger's cheek as the filmmaker curled his arm around the musician's shoulders.

"N-No. We wou-wouldn't be in th-this situation if I ha-had." He paused and looked up at the blond. "I…I'm s-sorry."

Roger's eyes snapped to his roomate's and he raised an eyebrow. "Don't go all mushy on me, Markie. It was nothin'."

Mark was in too much pain to comment on the nickname. "B-But…he st-stabbed you."

"And he beat the shit out of you, then threw you like a Goddamn baseball into those trashcans." Roger said bluntly, shrugging slightly.

Mark sighed softly, shivering yet again, and said nothing. He knew he wasn't going to get anything but curt responses if he kept pressing the issue.

The boho boys were now heading down Avenue B again, Tent City within sight. Roger's arm still hurt like Hell, and that pain was only growing worse, for the adrenaline that had been surging through his system earlier was fading fast.

"I-I really shouldn't b-be leaning-ing on you, Rog…" Mark commented, squirming a little in an attempt to disentangle himself from Roger. Roger, however, was completely against this, and wrapped his injured arm around Mark's waist. Mark yelped and gave the musician a look, but Roger just shook his head.

"You can't walk without my help." He said simply.

"B-But-"

"Just shut up and let me help you, Mark."

Mark's mouth hung open for a moment, then closed slowly, and he sighed again. "F-Fine. Just p-promise me y-you'll call 911 when w-we get ba-ack? We both k-kind of ne-need it."

Roger nodded once. "Mm-hmm." He was glad he was an expert at hiding his pain; otherwise, Mark would have been much more stubborn. It was an annoying, yet endearing quality Mark possessed – when his friends were hurt, he insisted that they be put first, even if he himself was injured. Roger never understood it, but he knew how to avoid Mark shutting down like that, so the musician did everything to make sure he didn't.

If Roger only knew why Mark was that way.

If someone asked Mark what was the most important thing in the entire world to him, he would answer that there wasn't just one thing – there were six. The names of those things were Benjamin Coffin the Third, Maureen Johnson, Joanne Jefferson, Mimi Marquez, Tom Collins, and finally, Roger Davis. There was nothing else in this entire **universe, **let alone the world, that meant more to Mark Cohen then his friends. And, however cliché the words were, he would die to save his friends. Seeing them suffer was like taking a blade to the heart for the filmmaker, even after the events of the past few years. Even after seeing everyone grow so far apart…even after feeling so, so alone for the longest time, as if he was no longer included in that circle of friends…he still felt terribly attached to them. Roger in particular, with him being his roommate and best friend and all. Mark had no idea what he would do without the musician, even though he knew the day would come when AIDS would overtake him. The same fate would befall Collins and Mimi, and as much as Mark hated to think about it, he would lay awake at night debating that very topic.

_Why am __**I**__ the witness? And…when I capture it on film, will it mean that it's the end…and I'm alone?_

Before the duo knew it, they had passed through Tent City and were making their way up the staircase to the loft. Mark struggled greatly at this point, wincing every few steps, and Roger found himself biting the inside of his cheek so he wouldn't do the same.

Walking around with a knife in your arm wasn't exactly beneficial to your health.

Mark pulled open the sliding door to the loft with his free arm and Roger dragged the both of them through, quickly depositing the filmmaker on the worn couch and heading over to the phone. The red light was blinking, so Roger played the voicemail, betting his limited wealth on it being Mark's mother.

"_Hey, babe, it's Mimi. It's gettin' late and I was just callin' to say goodnight and that I love you before I head to work…come on, Roger, pick up."_

Roger's eyes widened considerably. There went all that fake money.

"_Are you okay, babe? You're normally home right now. You always pick up around this time…you messin' with me, Rog? 'Cause it's not funny." _A pause.

Mimi's voice was suddenly a lot quieter.

"_Roger…?"_

A beep, and the red light went out.

Mark, who had twisted around in his seat at the sound of the Latina's voice, looked over at Roger, dark eyes wide behind his ruined glasses. He had a blanket wrapped around him now, "She's probably really w-worried…" He was starting to warm up, but just barely, so his voice still wavered as he shook.

"No shit." Roger mumbled, picking up the phone and dialing that all-important number. As with how things had gone a year ago, he was put on hold. Roger cursed again and took this time to finally inspect his wound properly, wincing a little at how bad it looked. The blade had torn a hole in his jacket and sunk deep into his forearm, almost passing all the way through. The blond was lucky the switchblade hadn't been all that long, or he would be in an even worse position right now. His sleeve was damp with the blood that had been able to escape, and…well, that's really all he could get without taking his jacket off and actually looking at the wound, which he wasn't going to be able to do unless he ripped the knife out.

Not going to happen.

He sighed and continued to listen to the tasteless music coming from the phone as he waited for a Goddamn 911 operator to pick up. He wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder so that his good hand was free, then tweaked his nose absently, a clear sign of previous drug abuse. He ran that hand through his hair a couple times, returned it to the phone and was about to complain to Mark when a sickly-sweet female voice replaced the music;

"Yes, sir? What is your emergency?"

No 911 operator should sound that cheery. It should be illegal. "Yeah, there's a fucking emergency, ma'am, and you just had me on hold for fucking forever."

"E-Excuse me?" The woman stuttered, thrown off by the sudden aggression.

"Do ya know that, while I was on hold, I could'a died? My friend could've, too, and it would have been **all your fault." **He was through playing games, through getting treated like shit because he wasn't some billionaire. He needed help, and he was going to get it.

"I…I…"

"Yeah, exactly, you don't got anything to say to that. Expected as much." He shook his head in disgust. "My roommate and I were just attacked in an alley by a big thug with a knife. We managed to make it back to our apartment, but I don't think either of us can go without medical attention for much longer. I got stabbed in the arm and he's beat up real bad." He scowled. "Think you can manage to get us an ambulance, **ma'am?"** The pleasantry was laced with sarcasm and venom.

"What's your current location, s-sir?" The operator squeaked.

"The industrial building on the corner of Eleventh Street and Avenue B, on the top floor. Get that damn ambulance here **fast, **lady." With that, he slammed the phone down, shaking with anger and intense pain. He walked over to the couch and fell onto it, gripping his arm like it was a cure for cancer.

Mark, who had watched the entire exchange with slightly fearful eyes, scooted closer to his roommate and carefully adjusted the blanket so that it covered the two of them. Roger let his arms rest overtop of the threadbare blanket, but he pressed up against Mark, who curled one of his arms around the musician in response.

"How bad are you hurt?" Roger asked, not looking at his fellow bohemian. His focus was entirely on his arm, which felt like it was on fire, while the rest of his body was freezing.

"Well, you've seen m-most of the damage." The filmmaker said softly, whimpering as his ankle gave a throb. "He punched me hard in the chest and in the f-face before he threw me. I landed weird and I think I twisted m-my ankle, 'cause it hurts real bad. And, of course, there's the cut on my throat." He gestured to said cut, which had stopped bleeding, but had stained both his scarf and the skin of his neck. "I'm r-real cold and wet, too."

Roger pressed even closer. "Could be worse, I guess."

"Yeah. I g-guess."

Silence settled over them, neither sure of what to say at this point. Roger wasn't really in the mood to talk, anyway, with the scalding hot pain radiating from his arm, and Mark just felt so tired…but he couldn't fall asleep. Falling asleep would be a horrible idea, seeing as there was a possibility of a concussion on his part. He knew there wasn't **that** big of a chance, but better safe than sorry, right?

He decided that conversation would be best – it would keep him engaged and alert. "So, I guess y-you got your Christmas present early this y-year, huh?"

Roger jumped a little at the sudden voice, but surprise faded into humor as he laughed his musical laugh. "I guess so, yeah. Not exactly what I had on my list, though."

"Hey, I asked for some new c-camera batteries for Hanukkah, not a knuckle s-sandwich."

Roger laughed a little harder. "Only little Markie would ask for **batteries**. Can't you wish for something normal, like…socks?"

Mark joined him in his laughter. "Actually, I **did **ask for s-socks. Maureen volunteered to get them f-for me."

Roger smirked as best as he could under the circumstances. "You are **so **not over her. After all this time? Dude, she's married."

Mark floundered. "I...I-I'm over her! So am…She's happy with Joanne, s-so…I'm **so **over…her…" He chewed on his lower lip, looking away from Roger.

Roger chuckled and nudged his roommate with his shoulder. "Stop lying to me and stop lying to yourself. You're never gonna get over her, are you?"

Mark was quiet for a while before he sighed in defeat. "No, I'm n-not."

Roger smirked wider and nodded. "Good boy! The first step towards recovery is admitting you have a problem."

Mark looked up at his roommate. "…The Hell d-did that come from?"

"I dunno. Some idiot at those meetings you made me go to while I was detoxing said that."

"Ah." Mark paused. "Hey, Rog?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you f-for saving me."

Roger blinked, then nodded again. "Sure thing. You would have done the same for me."

"If I could m-manage to even throw a p-punch, yeah." Mark replied, the bloodstained corner of his lip tugged upwards into a half-smile.

The musician laughed quietly, smiling coyly at the filmmaker. "I'm sure you could have found a rock or something and done a little David and Goliath routine."

"Hey, I'm not that sh-short!"

Roger rolled his eyes. "Shut up. You so are."

Mark opened his mouth to shoot some kind of retort Roger's way, but a series of clangs from outside their door shushed him. Seconds later, several EMTs appeared, pulling two stretchers behind them.

"Took you fucking long enough." Roger grumbled.

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><p><strong>AN: Hm. So yeah. That's my first RENT Fanfiction. I don't know whether I like it or not.**

**Tell me what you think? 3**

**~Muse**


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